A Series of Tests
by ristiki
Summary: Sherlock is confronted by the American military and given a series of IQ tests. While they are meant to reveal Sherlock's intellegence, they force Sherlock to delve into his mind palace and see who he has really been thinking about for such a time: John Watson. (for Viv24)
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Rated T for drug reference. Prompt by Viv24, also a wonderful writer! I do not own BBC Sherlock, if I did, it would be 5,000,000 times more angsty than it is and you would all die from the feels every second ever. More chapters on the way, favorite to keep on track if you like. Will get better! Enjoy!**

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"Hello, Mr. Holmes." The American Sargent said in a frosty tone. "Let us not hang upon the formality of greetings, Richard. I know how you detest me." I snarled in a most civilized way, just as I would at anyone else. "You're right, Holmes. I detest you and your secretive brother. You no good Brits are always treading on our grounds, running about the world like you own the damned place!" Sargent Richard Brook hollered, kicking me smack in the shin. I winced in an almost unnoticeable pain, unable to hide my face from him due to the fact I was died down in metal fixings to a chair bolted to the floor. For what it was worth, the Americans had good resources for confinement.

To my misfortune, he did notice the falter in my face. "Why, Sherlock, did I give you a bruise? I'm _so _sorry!" He yelped in a dominant tone if there ever was one. Giving me one last superior glance, he turned and clomped messily out of the room, his laughter trailing him as the metal door shut and bolted behind him.

I did not know why I was there, but I remembered how I got there. It was almost comical how I had not seen the attack coming. Saying as I had been dipping my fingers into American crime and Mycroft into their government very recent to the time of attack, it was almost as if I was begging to be captured. In a way, I think I was.

One afternoon, I was making my way back to the flat when I heard police sirens. Murder being enticing and almost drug-like to me, I followed the sounds like a drug fiend to his dealer. The sounds grew further rather than closer to me as I ran toward them, caught up in a curiosity and need to know what was going on, who had been killed and how. I ran and ran and finally, I came to a halt in a dark alleyway, the one off of Jensen Ave. and Jared St. to be exact. I heard the sirens blaring, but there was no source to them. _A trap._ I thought. Just as I was about to turn around, I felt the course material of a burlap sack engulf my body and I paid no mind to screaming; I knew I was caught for whatever reason by whoever was planning on my grand presence. I sat cross-legged in the thick-woven sack, waiting for the impact of being thrown into a van. I was surprised when I was gently set in the backseat of a rather cramped vehicle.

"Why the good treatment?" I asked. A low voice responded casually, "You are precious cargo, Mr. Holmes." and that was that. Next thing I knew, a needle prodded through the sack into my side, rushing white hot liquid beyond the barrier of my skin. I groaned at the sudden relaxation of my muscles, falling limp into the car door in a most uncomfortable fashion, falling unconscious a few seconds later. When I awoke, I was in the chair, held tight in a way that only established fear. My bonds were made of various metals and made by various companies in diverse countries, meaning only one thing; the Americans had caught me. For once, I did not know exactly the reason why.

A few days passed up until the encounter with Sargent Brook. After he left the confinement in his fit of rightful laughter, The Mist, as they called it, fell before me and I was swept into a forced sleep as I was every time I woke. When it would stop and I would know the true intentions of the Americans, I did not know.


	2. Chapter 2

Waking up and falling asleep becomes a habit that makes you want to die. All I had been doing for days and days was doing just that, waking up and falling asleep. I was useless, thinking momentarily in the times I was awake about everything I could be doing in my flat; 221b Baker Street seemed so far away in every moment dripping away in my confinement. Every moment spent alone there, being monitored relentlessly, was a moment I could be "home."

When I thought I literally had nothing else going for me and I was going to resist food in my next meals, a woman walked into the room. She was physically attractive to many males, I could easily tell. They were probably sending her in to seduce me and get me to tell all of my little secrets; little did they know how much it took to attract me. A pretty face and a prettier body cannot get past me, not unless they accompanied with clever tricks and witty games; I only met a woman like that once and she turned out to be just as dependent and needy as the others, not even her talents saving her arse from trouble.

"Hello, Mr Holmes." The woman said in a haughty tone, looking me up and down. She pulled a chair behind herself into the room and sat across from me, leaning over her clipboard in order to expose her cleavage. Her red hair trailed down her back in thick waves, her eyelashes batting as words rolled off of her tongue. She was a very appetizing treat, but not of my taste. She was too dim, but yet, there was something about her that seemed intriguing… Oh yes, her clipboard.

Seeing as my eyes were not trailing the every breathe she inhaled through her bosom, she became annoyed and sat up as she normally would, fixing a pair of glasses upon her face and tying her hair in a bun. "You should have come in here like the, Rimalda, I find you much more attractive that way." I said with a smirk. Now that I was having the chance to remain alert for more than three seconds at most, I was reveling and abusing the sarcastic side of my being, playing my cards to the aces.

She scoffed "Let's get to the point, I have a job here and you must comply with my instruction. Do not interrupt and do not ask questions. Play along. I do know how you love to play games." She used her flirtatious tone near the end and I gave her a look of disregard, not knowing it would hurt her inside almost as much as my bounds hurt me in my early resistance.

She looked at her clipboard in a menacing way and clipped her words out, "Today, we have ink blot tests for you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes." And before she could begin showing me the blots I was just beginning to wonder about the purpose and relevance of, I was given the fast-acting drug I couldn't think of a name to match and I passed out cold, the last image in my brain being the run in her silk crème stockings.


	3. Chapter 3

My eyes slid open heavily to see the woman still sitting before me, still with a run in her stockings. It was the same day, I could see. "I have ordered them to stop drugging you. You have been on the drug long enough. Also, The Mist will be discontinued in you cell as of today. Congratulations, Mr. Holmes." I was eager on the inside for the first time in ages, this freedom of thought surely allowing me time to figure out communications to Mycroft for escape from my "cell."

In the meantime, I had to deal with Americans and their silly tests. "Mr. Holmes," she said with a drawn tight smile, "here we have a set of five ink blots. I will ask you to look at them and you tell me what you see. Tell me honestly or there is sure punishment for your lies." I nodded and did not bother asking why I must do this, knowing there would be no answer.

"Ink blot one." She said, flipping a crisp white sheet around to face me. The black ink was everywhere and nowhere; All I could see in it were canes. All of the canes looked the same and all of them were pointing me somewhere. My brows furrowed tightly as I tried to recall the canes, and then it hit me; John had had a cane when he met me. The cane in the blot looked like an exact silhouette of Johns' cane.

I could not fathom why I was seeing this, but I felt a strong urge to lie to her as she stared at me. I composed myself and replied to the question I know she must have asked but I did not hear, "I see two birds back to back, wings outstretched." I knew every inkblot and every pattern for originals. I knew this is the answer most people would give for this type of inkblot pattern.

She looked a mild stunned, obviously thinking I would see something different from everyone else, which I did. She hardly showed her change in face, but knowing who I am, she knew I saw it. She bowed her head and looked through her other ink blots, contenting with the second in the pile of five. She set the first upon the damp, silver floor and picked up the second, turning it to face me.

I saw guns. Guns of only one type that again lead up to John. The gun he had at the study in pink. He had killed a man for me and he would not shy from doing it again. The gun he kept at the flat, the one that was placed in his small wooden nightstand before he moved into 221b Baker Street. The gun he always said he vowed to shoot me with if I did not stop bothering him with my texts, demands, and heads in the refrigerator. The gun with so many memories, yet not enough, none at all.

"What do you see, Mr. Holmes?" she asked in a small voice. Why she seemed so much smaller, I do not know, but it only lasted a second. Again, I lied. "I see candlesticks lit by matches, four of them facing opposite one another in a row." She cleared her throat and did not take her time with the next ink blot.

With every test there was some reminder of John. Something that made me for once not want to go home for me, but for him. To assure my safety and make sure he was okay, not me. I for the first time wished to look out for the welfare of someone else.

The last inkblot tore me in two. It was John and I, face to face. I couldn't have hidden my pain anymore in that moment than I could have blinked and been at 221. I tried to hide my grimance but it was impossible. For that, she knew I was seeing something else, so I told her a lie, but a fantastic one. I told her "I see dripping knife." And I sniffled accordingly, signaling some heartbreaking significance to a stabbing and I knew her little heart would break. She assured that the last ink blot was done and she would be processing the results for her studies.

Bidding me goodbye, she clicked her heels out of the room and for once, I desperately wished for The Mist to engulf me so that I would not think of John for the next hours, verging on tears I never knew I possessed, trying to figure out what I was thinking, why he caused such emotion I have never before expressed.


	4. Chapter 4

I fell in an out of dreams, or were they nightmares? I can't remember, but every time I woke I was in a cold sweat, yet my heart was beating fast in a way that could only make me feel 'happy.' I was confused as I rarely am, but I put off my concern for my lack of rest when She came back. She did not want me to call her by her name any longer and I remained on her good side, seeing as she was attempting to be one my side by cutting off the torture and sleep tactics from the ruddy Americans. She was also British; maybe that's why she was giving me a fighting chance in whatever they were planning.

I knew I was wrong, I knew that is what they would all expect me to think, to ally with my people. That is why I remained lying to her at every turn and question.

She clipped her small, heeled feet over to her chair, the one that was there only when I woke at her entrance, the deliverer never showing their face. "Hello again, Mr. Holmes." She said in a brisk tone that meant business. I did not respond to her and let her barrel through to the point of the day's visit. "Today we are taking a series of Thematic Apperception Tests. I already know you are aware of the formatting, so without further ado, let us begin…

A window pane looking out over London,  
Across your street you see all of the normal buildings and life roaming about.  
You turn around in your flat and…

_And I see John, in a red jumper, sitting down to read the paper. He has his daily cup of coffee steaming next to him, a coffee with no sugar or cream. He is clearing his throat as he does when he is adjusting to the light and lack of sleep he has from living day to day in a life of a consulting detective's assistant. He is tried and has creases ever growing upon his olive skin. His hair is graying faster and faster as the days pass with me, but he is still a brilliant man and an even better doctor. For some reason, the things he knows I know as well, but I feel as though I am just learning them as he speaks them. He looks up at me, brows knitted, and is about to ask me a question when I hear…_

"Sherlock? Tell me what you saw." She ordered. I relayed the first thing that came to mind, other than what I really thought, the first lie I could muster, something that she would be more than happy to scribe upon her little notepad. "I saw my human skull on the mantelpiece. It seemed to be looking back at me and I went over and picked it up and bid it a good morning, placing it upon the window sill as I grabbed my violin and began to play any tune that came to mind as I stared out of the window waiting for a surprise." She jotted down a few words from what I said and hummed a tune as she wrote. If not for her alarming ability to be taken advantage of by the Americans and her lack of true understanding at what my thoughts were, I may have found her attractive in her normal state.

"Very good, Mr. Holmes. Here is your next scene…

There is a raven in the air,  
flying about your head in circles.  
It drops a knobby twig upon your head and leaves  
heading back to its nest not too far away…

_And I look at the bird, the protector of its children. He is tall and his sleek black feathers are thick, hiding his skin. He is strong, but he stumbles almost unnoticeably as his mate, a calico beauty of a bird stares at him in awe, being temporarily unaware of her own children's' insistent screeching. She snaps back into her role as the firm provider, the backbone to her mate, and flies gracefully to kill others for her family and the praise and protection of her mate. She knows he is weak, but he will never show it, not ever. She flies right to me and lands on my shoulder, pointing her beak at the twig her mate dropped upon my head. I grab it and look at the pecking in engraved in the wood. _John_ it says. I look to the bird and she winks at me and I realize that John is the Calico and I am the Raven…_

"I see the raven land in its nest and I turn away, not caring about a simple bird and its family when I have much more important things to be off doing." I reply again to a question I did not hear, but I knew came. She nods and says "This is the last of your tests, Sherlock. Goodbye."

And just as she exited the room, The Mist fell over me once more and I was glad; I did not have to think of John under the influence of The Mist.


	5. Chapter 5

I slid my lids open, expecting to see gray everywhere but was pleasantly surprised to be tucked into my own red satin sheets, the only reminder of my recent escapade being a small note on pink parchment with an American flag pin alongside it. The note read:

_Thank you for participating in our tests.  
The results are none other than what we expected; lies.  
We are in ties with Moriarty.  
Expect for a surprise in your future, one of the most interesting type.  
At last good tidings, your American friends._

I chuckled, "Should have known." and shifted lazily out of my sheets, opening my door to a red-faced and furious John Watson. "Where in the bloody Hell have you been, Sherlock?" he asked in a seething tone. "Oh out and about, John." I said in a dismissive tone, trying to shut him up as I thought.

"Where, Sherlock. Tell me." John ordered. "Well aren't you getting a bit ahead of yourself? Since when have I answered to you, John Watson?" I scoffed slightly. I began to walk down the hall to the kitchen, leaving him huffing and puffing behind me. Just as I was about to turn the corner, I heard a sniffle.

I turned on my heel just in time to be thrown against the wall, pinned by the abnormally strong grip of practically pocket-sized John. He glared at me, tears welling in his eyes. I opened my mouth to try and form some sort of apology, but he barreled over me with his rage. "YOU EXPECT ME TO WAIT HERE FOR YOU EVERY DAY AND NIGHT, WAITING FOR YOU TO COME HOME! YOU DON'T GIVE A _DAMN_ ABOUT WHAT LIFE I LIVE OR WHAT I THINK WHEN YOU'RE GONE! I AM ALWAYS WONDERING IF YOU ARE DEAD OR ALIVE, SHERLOCK. EVERY NIGHT YOU SPEND DOING WHATEVER IT IS YOU DO, I AM HERE HUDDLED UP IN THE FLAT, WAITING FOR YOU TO COME HOME. I AM SHAKING IN MY SHEETS, _CRYING_ OVER YOU, SHERLOCK. AND YOU DON'T GIVE A _**DAMN.**_ DAMN YOU, SHERLOCK!" His face was red with anger and I tensed up in the face of his outburst. I never knew he did all of that when I was gone, never knew a thing. For once, I was clueless. "John," I mumbled, "I never knew any of this. Why didn't you tell me sooner?" John looked up at me, even more furious and ablaze than before. "I shouldn't have to tell you, _damnit._"

Suddenly, John's hands began to shake and before I could say even a single syllable in response, his hands grabbed ahold of the back of my neck and pulled me down to his level. I gasped and John looked into my eyes, licking his lips. "Damn you to Hell, Sherlock Holmes." He said, just before he clashed his lips upon my own.


	6. Chapter 6

His lips were warm and moist upon my dry, pale ones. _Calico_ I thought. John felt the tension leave my body and I suppose that signaled him to do as he wished without my true approval. He rolled his tongue over _my _lips, moistening them al sliding our mouths into a better lip-lock. I felt my arms move to drape around his waist. He then slipped his tongue in my mouth and snogged me senseless.

After about twenty minutes, John peeled his face from mine, a tear rolling down his face. _I'm so sorry, Calico._ I thought, _I'm so sorry I caused you all of this pain. _John said, "I forgive you, Raven." Just as I registered his response, I saw him back away from me and look down the hall. "This is goodbye, Sherlock. I just want you to know that I loved you." Before I could tell him I loved him as well, the first time I would have ever told that to anyone, I looked down the hall and saw Moriarty, a pistol in each hand, triggers at the ready.

Seconds later, we were both shot in the head, dead, later to be found by a frantic Mrs. Hudson. By then we had already passed into our decided places after death. John went to Heaven and I to Hell, where I lay here writing this letter to God in the essence of my spirit as a plea for forgiveness for all of the uncaring things I did in my life on earth, begging in my own way to be sent to Heaven, to betray my newest role and give everything to be back with John, my Calico bird.

The chances of my acceptance are slim, as I am Satan and John the Heavenly Son, yet I cannot help but ask, never wanting to betray a role in my life more than now. I send this letter quickly, before a demon happens upon me and sees I am not brewing more torture for the many people of my black palace.

With the letter sent, I return to my duty and burn, burn, BURN the _hearts_ out of the dwellers of my sickly Hell, giving no mercy in the light of my pain and their wrongs.

Fin.


End file.
